


Falling up

by iiscos



Series: Falling Series [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, i cant believe im pioneering this ship here, mostly just short headcannons of how their friendship panned out, their dynamic honestly fascinates me to no end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: Marco was one of the quieter kids—scrawny and short compared to the other boys, cheeks still rounded with baby fat. When he smiled, Dani could see metal lining his teeth, partially hiding an unfortunate overbite that would take another year and a half to fully ameliorate. Marco spoke with an Mallorcan accent, but his words were careful and polite. He almost never swore.He seemed like a loser, Dani thought.





	1. Spain U16, 2012, Fribourg

_Spain U16, 2012, Fribourg_

Dani was fifteen when he first met Marco, after they received call ups to the Spanish under-16 football team for a friendly against Switzerland. They were put in the same hotel room because Ceballos followed Asensio alphabetically, and both of them had been the sole representatives of their respective clubs, arriving in Fribourg without a friend to pen down as a preferred roommate.

Marco was one of the quieter kids—scrawny and short compared to the other boys, cheeks still rounded with baby fat. When he smiled, Dani could see metal lining his teeth, partially hiding an unfortunate overbite that would take another year and a half to fully ameliorate. Marco spoke with an Mallorcan accent, but his words were careful and polite. He almost never swore.

He seemed like a loser, Dani thought. Not that Dani fared any better at that age—similarly scrawny, similarly short, although youthful delusion and a sizable, albeit fragile ego overshadowed his self-awareness and contributed to a defiant persona that often exhumed petulance and contentiousness. Or so he had been told. A week ago, he had dyed his naturally dark hair an abrasive shade of platinum blonde, which he would only admit to regretting many years into adulthood.

Dani wished he roomed with Saúl instead, because Saúl seemed like someone he might get along with. Saúl was a year older, a few inches taller, stockier in build, and relatively blessed in his passage through puberty. He had spent his youth at Atlético's academy, which had hardened him to a formidable deputy in defensive midfield. He even got a new tattoo on his wrist that he showed off, a quote of some sort in blackletter font, the underlying personal significance eluding Dani as he eavesdropped on a conversation between Saúl and Jorge Meré during the bus ride to the hotel.

Marco didn’t have any tattoos.

Dani didn’t mind Marco, and neither did he consider Marco to be anyone of importance. He quickly reevaluated, however, the morning of their first practice session, when the quiet Mallorcan boy stepped up for a free kick, bending a beauty into the top left corner.

~~

Dani liked to play in the center of midfield, deep enough to direct the play with mazy dribbles and penetrating through balls. He liked being a step ahead of the opposition (and sometimes, even his teammates), his passing dictating the run rather than the other way around, his vision guiding the team to victory even if in the end, his boot did not send the ball into the net. 

Marco liked to play on the wing, his movements fluid and unpredictable, a nightmare to mark. With every drop of his shoulder, every shift in pace, Marco created space in the otherwise packed defense, leaving opponents scrambling to keep up. Dani acknowledged the surprising speed, the instant control, the exceptional accuracy with the swing of that left foot. 

Passing to Marco never disappoints.

~~

As with any group of 20 or so youngsters, closer cliques form within their camp, despite the unanimous effort to sustain inclusiveness and amity between everyone involved. These boundaries, however subtle, felt more pronounced to some than others.

Dani could recognize the golden boys from Madrid, from Barcelona—boys who radiated the same confidence as the bright cities they grew up in and the prestigious clubs they played for—while other lads were a little more shy wearing the colors of their country, a little more lost as they were propelled through the levels of their youth system, suddenly becoming visible in the eyes of the great football nation.

Sometimes, these differences felt staggering, insurmountable. Whenever the time came to choose partners for practice, Dani almost always found himself beside Marco.

~~

Every night, Marco spent the minutes before bed carefully wrapping bandages around his knees. Not many of their teammates knew of the chronic illness he suffered, and Dani wouldn’t have known either if they hadn't shared a room. The bandages always came off in the morning.

Marco didn’t like talking about his knees, but they often bothered him during the still hours of the night, without the excitement of friends or football to distract him from the nagging discomfort. And again, Dani wouldn’t have known, if Marco hadn’t tossed and turned the nights away, shuffling in the adjacent bed and keeping Dani awake as well. Dani was a light sleeper.

The pain must have been especially bothersome the evening before their match against Switzerland, restlessness and nerves only further disheartening Marco’s desperate attempts to sleep. Dani, even in his dreams, could hear Marco’s uneven breathing, pillows and sheets sometimes taking the brunt of the Mallorcan boy’s frustration as sleep evaded him repeatedly. During some early hour of the morning, Dani shuffled out of his own bed and walked over.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be still,” Marco said without preamble, “You should get some sleep before the game.”

“You know I can’t,” Dani responded, before adding, “It’s not your fault.”

Marco pushed himself up, drawing his legs close to his chest, and Dani accepted the space offered to him on his teammate’s bed. He reached over to rest a hand on the cap of Marco’s knee, feeling the rough strip of medicated bandage bound tightly over fragile bones.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Dani asked, and Marco shook his head.

“The pain isn’t bad. It’s just—the soreness—it’s constant. It never goes away.”

“Will it get better with time?”

Silence hung between them, before Marco finally responded, his voice quivering at the edges from a deep-seated sadness that he could not suppress. The darkness of their room kept Dani from seeing his face. “I will know in another year or two.”

Dani, probably more so than most, understood what it was like to be hurt, to push forward despite the frustrating weakness of one’s own body that pained like a personal betrayal. He remembered being a sickly boy with weak lungs that kept him from playing, from breathing. Abandoned by Sevilla at the age of twelve, he had clawed his way back to the footballing world with nothing but broken pride and sheer force of will. It took three long years at his hometown club to overcome his weak lungs and impress the scouts that drifted in and out of Utrera. And on his return to Seville, Dani penned his name down for Sevilla's cross city rival, stepping onto the pitch in the _verdiblanco_ of Real Betis—angry and ready to raise hell.

Dani understood Marco's fears, that it was not the pain but the uncertainty of losing football—losing _everything_ —that tore into his friend at night. But if Dani took away anything from his own hardships, it was that nothing could truly hurt you, when football was in your blood, your soul.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, his thumb smoothing over a crease in the bandages covering Marco’s knee. “You’ve come this far, and you’re fucking gifted and tough. _Hell_ —you’ll be okay.”

Marco smiled shyly, perhaps knowing too well the dangers of false hope, but Dani remained steadfast and confident in his stance, warming to the idea of saying _I told you so_  to Marco when they meet again and again in the years to come, wearing the proud red of their country.

~~

Marco got to start against Switzerland. Dani lost out to Denis Suárez. The disappoint was bitter, but Dani did not allow it to overshadow his happiness for Marco, because Marco had been phenomenal all week—certainly deserving of the starting position on the right wing. As for Dani, he simply had to work harder for his role in the midfield, until he became so good that the coach would have no choice but to start him alongside his new friend.

When Dani finally came on with 30 minutes left to play, Marco was waiting for him by the byline. They brushed shoulders and shared a smile, before falling into formation for kick off.

~~

Three years later, Marco signed for Real Madrid— _the fucker._ And that news was certainly a harder pill to swallow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another unpopular ship to share with you all
> 
> I feel this might be too soon, but their [friendship](http://jamesalarcon.tumblr.com/post/164534339035/asensio-ceballos-la-sociedad-letal-de-la-sub-21) [is so](http://jamesalarcon.tumblr.com/post/164509001375/asensio-ceballos-la-sociedad-letal-de-la-sub-21) [cute](http://mishal-77.tumblr.com/post/164275997938/marco-asensio-and-daniel-ceballos-with-the-trophy), I just had to fic. Hopefully, the season turns out well off and on the pitch, and I won't live to regret these words
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback appreciated


	2. Spain U19, 2015, Katerini part i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I got some fun comments here and on my tumblr, and it means the world because i had no idea if this was worth pursuing or not. So here's an update with a smidgen of angst because strong friendships aren't always rainbows and daisies.

_Spain U19, 2015, Katerini part i_

Three years had passed, and some things were bound to change.

Marco’s knees no longer ached, and his bone development appeared normal. While his doctors never considered his progress a medical miracle, neither did they guarantee full recovery until last year. Nevertheless, Marco found it easier to smile without this constant worry—his potential now boundless, his future appearing bright. Marco was officially a Real Madrid player, and a successful loan spell at Mallorca earned him a call up for the European U19 Championship.

Marco had grown taller and gained some muscle to accompany his height. He even managed to edge over Dani by a few centimeters, although the Betis midfielder refused to acknowledge the fact, even with the evidence (and the numbers) right in front of them on their physical reports. Dani blamed it on Marco’s hair, which pushed up in the front, and also on his own posture, because Dani did tend to slouch when standing still. Marco figured it was best not to mention that Dani weighed slightly less too.

Dani was on the leaner side, with a stubble matting his jaw, which he aspired to grow into a respectable beard one day. It made him look roguish when he smiled, like there was an edge to him that was unpredictable, hungry, dangerous. Tattoos covered his right arm from shoulder to wrist, the intricate symbols dovetailing one another—an eye, a clock, a pair of hands clasped in prayer—the images sinuous and chaotic like a spiral down inferno.

Dani still bleached his hair, but only the top part which he now swept to one side. The darkness of his roots offered a stark contrast to the platinum streaks, while the sides of his hair were trimmed short, receding into a fade behind his ears. Personally, Marco preferred when Dani was a full brunette, which he had been briefly during Mallorca's away match at Betis last season. When left alone, Dani’s hair would curl naturally in the front, reminding Marco of stormy stratus clouds or the wool of a black sheep. But Dani liked to do complicated things with his hair, especially as they climb onto the biggest stage of their lives yet, and there was no stopping Dani once he had put his mind to something.

Marco and Dani agreed to be roommates, that part had not changed, with Marco taking the bed by the window because he enjoyed the cityscape, and Dani preferring the bed further away to minimize light pollution, cold currents, or other variables that might interfere with his sleep. By the time Marco unlocked the door to their hotel room, Dani was already inside, sprawled on his bed like a starfish next to a haphazardly unpacked suitcase. After laughing and hugging as old friends do, Dani took Marco’s head into his hands and stretched his face until Marco smiled with all his perfectly aligned, metal-free teeth.

That part had not changed either.

~~

Dani drew the most fouls out of anyone on the team, in part because he was brilliant on the ball, in part because he was infuriating to defend. He enjoyed his roulettes and tricks and back heel flicks, but for the opposition, they often felt disrespected, humiliated even, when national pride was at stake. Nonetheless, Dani was never particularly concerned about helping rivals save face.

Spain opened the tournament against Russia, and Borja’s goal in the tenth minute gave them a slender lead. Chances that followed were few and far in between, as the Russian pressure and compact defense suffocated Spain’s creative sparks. Early into the second half, Dani intercepted a pass and started his impressive run by the edge of the box. He skipped over one defender and nutmegged a another—with a few _oohs_ and _ahs_ from the crowd goading him on—before a third finally hacked him down, studs digging painfully into the side of his shin.

 _That will be a sore one,_ Marco thought, as Dani tumbled onto the pitch, holding his leg and grimacing in pain. A whistle, a yellow, and a point to the spot, while Russian players crowded around the referee despite the incontestable nature of such decisions. Borja converted the penalty to allow Spain a comfortable lead. Dani wore his impish smile, despite the red seeping into his sock.

~~

Marco was no foreigner to the bruises from tackles, but Dani had earned some of the worst he had ever seen. A spectrum of discolorations marred his legs, the bruises never quite given ample time to heal before a new one appeared. Older ones had dulled to a lifeless gray, while the newest from the match against Russia tinged his skin beet red.

“You don’t need to draw fouls all the time,” Marco said, “You don’t need to rile people up.”

Dani only grinned as he lounged on his bed, lazily flipping through the channels with ice strapped to his leg.

~~

Dani got into a scuffle with Jorge Meré over a tackle that was a touch too heavy. Tempers rose quickly as both players rose to their feet—pushing, shoving, and hurling empty threats. By the time Marco rushed over, Jorge had Dani’s training kit wrapped around a fist. Saúl had to intervene, pulling the defender away.

“Bullshit, and you know it!” Dani shouted, “You were fucking late!”

“Well, you act like you’re fucking God’s gift to football,” Jorge shouted back, “Fuck you!”

Marco kept his arms around Dani, fearing that Dani might actually pounce. He couldn’t fathom why Dani edged the defender on like that, since Dani wasn’t all that tall or all that strong, and certainly wouldn’t stand a chance in an _actual_ brawl with Jorge of all people. But Dani struggled against Marco as if he had a point to prove and only settled down when their assistant manager appeared, banishing all the boys involved to laps around the field.

~~

Marco retained his starting position in their second match against the Netherlands; Dani was dropped in favor of Denis Suárez. The game started out slow, with both teams needing time to get into rhythm. Marco drifted in and out of the wing, hoping to string some passes along to the forwards. A piece of their midfield felt regrettably missing, and that piece was likely seething on the bench. An own goal and a penalty left the scoreline even before the referee blew his whistle for halftime.

Dani entered the match with most of the second half left to play, jogging into the center with nothing but dauntless determination. He played like a man with vengeance on his mind, fueled by the fire in his belly over damaged pride. Dani’s introduction caused chaos for the Dutch defense, as the talented, young Spanish side finally sparked to life.

~~

Marco scored the match winner after a brilliant play from Dani, and they should be celebrating— _honestly, they should_ —but Dani spent the night in their hotel room instead, brooding over the coach’s decision to start Denis over him.

Dani was never good at hiding his emotions, and as always, there was just _so much_ of it, barely contained like a bursting dam. Marco cared for Dani, and Marco worried for him. Dani was his best friend on the national team, but sometimes, listening to Dani made his head spin.

“Maybe it’s not just about who’s better.” Mentally exhausted, Marco blurted out.

Dani halted in his pacing and turned to his friend, eyes narrowed as his frustration finally found a tangible, but misdirected target. Marco regretted his words almost immediately.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s not just about who’s better,” Marco grimaced, “But what’s best for the team.”

“ _I’m_ not good for the team?” Dani laughed, incredulous. “What the fuck are you trying to say, Asensio?”

“No, you are,” Marco amended, “You can change the game all on your own, we all know that. But it’s just that—you do this _thing_. I don’t even know if you realize it or not.”

“What thing?”

Sometimes, _sometimes_ , in addition to Dani's hard work and boundless creativity, there would be a bite in his play that felt provocative, pressuring. Sometimes the passes were just a touch too pacey or a touch too heavy, as if underlying the teamwork was a challenge. It almost felt like Dani _knew_ that he could get the pass through and then teased whomever the recipient may be to latch on and to control it, to prove they were good enough to keep up. 

Marco told Dani just that. "It can—unsettle people at times.”

Dani stared at Marco in disbelief, before finally stating, “That’s not true.”

“You do it to me too,” Marco admitted, and he never anticipated the prickle in his chest when the words were finally said aloud. “Sometimes.”

Marco was not their coach nor their captain. He was an equal to Dani, in every possible way. He knew he had no right to offer this kind of criticism, just as Dani had no right to challenge his teammates with brilliant passes just a fraction out of reach. The silence stretched infinitely between them afterwards, Marco’s revelation adding but another spiral into the violent tempest that was Dani’s state of mind.

“You’re fucking imagining things,” Dani finally said, before shoving his hands into his pockets and storming out.

He didn’t come back until late in the night and left again at the break of dawn, before Marco even woke up

~~

The next two days were awkward as hell, because they didn’t really talk anymore even though they shared a room. They landed on opposite sides of a practice match for the first time in a long time, Dani standing before Marco in an orange training kit rather than green.

Marco went for a loose ball, but Dani reached it first, evading Marco’s challenge with a roulette that left Marco wrong-footed and off-balanced, tumbling onto the grass. He turned to see Dani grin at him, and suddenly, he felt more anger than hurt. And in that moment, Marco could almost understand the rage that must have consumed defenders, when they lunged for Dani’s agile, but breakable legs.

Marco dusted himself off and rose to his feet, swallowing his resentment with his pride, willing his mind away from Dani’s cruel tricks. Practice dragged on forever with both sides evenly matched, until Dani rolled a disguised pass to Borja, the ball cushioned so immaculately, so near perfection, that even Borja was surprised at how easily it yielded to his touch.


	3. Spain U19, 2015, Katerini part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the wonderful feedback both on here and on my tumblr! You guys have really made exploring this idea worthwhile!

_Spain U19, 2015, Katerini part ii_

Dani approached the vacant seat between Iñaki and Sandro, dropping his breakfast on the table with more force than necessary or appropriate. Sandro raised his brows at the commotion but continued to chew his eggs quietly. Iñaki, however, did not respond with such consideration, his grin grating at Dani’s nerves before a word was even said aloud.

“The Asen-Ballos Cold War drags into day three.”

Dani grimaced as the first sip of hot, bitter coffee splashed against his tongue. “Stop talking to me,” he mumbled.

His teammates weren’t idiots, no matter how often they acted the part. Considering that Dani and Marco had been practically inseparable until merely days ago, the rest of the team were bound to realize that something had gone awry. Dani only wished that they were better about minding their own business.

Marco had found a seat on the other end of the breakfast table, and Dani made an effort not to stare. If these few days of solitude served any purpose, it was to remind Dani that things had indeed changed in the past three years. Marco was one of the golden boys now, even if he had spent the past season on loan with humble Mallorca, even if he still shared a room with Dani when abroad with the national team. Real Madrid was his future, and awaiting for him in the capital was a shirt and a number, glory and prestige, and predetermined friends such as Borja, Llorente, and Jesús, who offered a camaraderie that only a common crest would.  

Borja whispered a joke into Marco’s ear, and Marco bursted into laughter as if all were still the same. Meanwhile, Dani—against his better judgement—watched from afar, like a pauper outside a store window, his breath fogging the glass.

Jealousy is an ugly emotion.

~~

Dani stepped out of the shower after practice just in time to hear the tail end of a conversation between Jorge and Jonny Castro.

“I don’t care how good he thinks he is,” Jonny said, “We have Denis, we have Merino. Fuck that guy.”

Dani cleared his throat, and both of his teammates flinched. They fell silent afterwards, but the earlier sentiment remained in their frowns even if they could not bring themselves to look Dani in the eye.

Dani went to his locker, got dressed, and packed his things, before slamming the locker room door shut and leaving without a word.

~~

No beauty is without its folly, and people are rarely afforded the luxury to cherry pick. Dani was simply what he was, and nothing can dissociate his ambition from his competitiveness, his passion from his volatility, his perseverance from reckless, stubborn tenacity. He made few friends during training at times, and even fewer friends on the pitch.

But none of this mattered to Dani because he had decided long ago that he never wanted to be popular, never intended to get along with everyone. Only football mattered—football and being good at what he did—and Dani was determined to become so good that all these other stuff—popularity, reputation, prestige—would not matter for the people around him either. Dani was prepared to train twice as hard, to work himself to the bone, and perhaps, even tread on a few toes to get to the top.

Against Germany, Dani started alongside Marco, but Marco did not smile or wish him good luck. Spain dominated possession, and Dani was once again the creative force, stringing along brilliant passes so the forwards, and Marco, could score brilliant goals. He and Marco barely spoke the entire time, but that did not change the course of the game.

By the time the final whistle was blown, Marco had bagged a brace of goals and Dani a brace of assists, while Spain beat Germany 4-1, a rout in terms of the German’s lofty standards. Dani thanked their fans as the players ambled off the the pitch, hearing his name mingled among the chants and cheers.

Dani didn’t need Marco to be a good footballer.

But he sure as hell missed him.

~~

Dani was fumbling with his shin guards after practice one afternoon, when Gerard Deulofeu—Barcelona product and newly elect captain—approached him on the training ground. Dani’s mood was average, which meant it was not particularly good, and he was exhausted and hungry and wished he didn’t have to deal with Geri’s generically handsome face, his golden boy persona, or the useless words of concern that would inevitably leave his mouth.

“Everything okay between you and Marco?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dani grumbled as he rose to his feet, “We’re fine.”

“You guys were good friends,” Geri stated, “And now, you barely speak. This isn’t good for you guys, football, or anyone.”

“We’re fine,” Dani repeats, “And the football is fine. That part should be obvious, right?”

“It’s not just about football,” Geri said, and Dani wanted to object, because of course it was about football. _Everything_ was about football, about performing and winning—what a stupid thing to say. Geri’s grin, however, caught him off guard. “Ever thought about playing tennis?”

~~

“I’m sorry,” Marco said one night, just as Dani flipped off the lamp on his nightstand and settled beneath his sheets.

Dani froze mid-turn, and for a moment, he wondered if his mind had played a trick on him, conjuring Marco’s voice out of nothing but habit and memories. Marco’s uneven breathing suggested otherwise, though.

“Why are you apologizing?” Dani finally asked.

“I was out of line.”

So was Dani, and even Dani realized that, but that part went unspoken because Marco had always been the bigger person, Dani’s better half.

“You’re still my best friend, and I don’t want to lose a friendship over something stupid, over careless words.”

“Yeah, you’d have to go after my sister for that,” Dani joked listlessly, and Marco, on the other side of the room, dared to laugh.

Dani shuffled out of his bed and approached Marco on his, the incandescent city of Katerini sprawling and fantastic beyond the window of their shadowy hotel room. Marco made space for Dani, and for awhile, they simply sat side by side, watching the city lights glisten along the cove, speeding cars igniting the long, cable-stayed bridges to life.

Marco was right, even if Dani’s pride prevented him from admitting it still—or at least, in words. He did listen to Marco, though, and adjusted his play to be more mindful of his teammates, recognizing Geri’s inclination to run rather than to dribble, Borja’s bursting pace down the middle when defenders lapsed in their concentration, Saúl’s preference for his left boot whenever he cut inside. Marco _must_ have noticed these changes Dani had made, because Marco was good at noticing subtlety—finding the glimmers of gold buried among the flaws.

“You snore when you sleep,” Dani stated matter-of-factly, disrupting their silence.

“I— _What?_ ” Marco stammered, caught out.

“Not all the time, but you do,” Dani grinned, feeling a bit ridiculous, as he pushed a knee against Marco’s.

Marco laughed, shaking his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Why would I lie about this?” Dani rolled his eyes. “You wake yourself up a minute after though, and then, you turn around and sleep just fine. It’s funny.”

“Why don’t you ever wake me up first?”

“I don’t know.” Dani shrugged. “I figured you deserved some good sleep after so many years of not being able to, because of—well, you know—your knees.”

Marco ducked his head in embarrassment, hiding his smile. “But then, that means I kept you awake.”

“It’s fine.” Dani waved a hand dismissively. “I sleep just fine the rest of the time, when you’re not my roommate, you _fucker_.”

Marco laughed and shoved Dani’s shoulder, before drawing him close for a sideways hug.

~~

Dani and Marco both started in the final, as Spain put forth their strongest eleven for a rematch against Russia. The Russians exerted their usual pressure up the pitch, while Dani countered with his own relentless energy—a bright spot for the Spaniards, an irritant for their opponents. Marco, meanwhile, glided on the wings, creating space with his constant movement and taking on defenders with finesse and grace. A fantastic teamplay saw Borja tapping into the net in the first half, while a late goal from Iñaki all but sealed the win. In the aftermath of ecstasy and jubilation and confetti in royal red, Marco and Dani posed together for photographs with their arms around each other and their medals between their teeth.

Marco was voted the Golden Boy of the tournament, and Dani watched on with pride, as Marco once again claimed another individual honor, another plaque with his name engraved. And somehow, Dani accepted that Marco might always be a small step ahead, always be under the limelight deservingly and convincingly, but that should only encourage Dani further, to work harder and to keep pace so that he and Marco will always be just about even, as footballers and as best friends.


	4. Spain U21, 2017, Kraków part i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, and left wonderful and encouraging messages on my tumblr! This has been a joy to write, largely because of my readers who were willing to give this story a chance. Thanks again for sticking with me throughout. One more chapter and it's a wrap-up!

_Spain U21, 2017, Kraków part i_

The footballing world teemed with eagerness and anticipation as they eyed the young Spanish team that boasted some of the the most promising talents to grace the European U21 Championships. For many of the youngsters, the past domestic season had been revelatory. Marcos Llorente lead a phenomenal campaign on loan to Alavés, certainly deserving of a call-back to his parent club in Madrid. Saúl Ñiguez thrived in the midfield of Atlético and was lauded as the rightful heir to an aging, but unremitting squad. Denis Suárez was welcomed back to Barça’s first team, brimming with quality and vision when afforded the opportunity. And Marco Asensio looked as if the world was for his taking—scoring goal after wonder goal for a team riding high on back-to-back Champions League titles, only 21 years of age but already bedecked with more silverware than most footballers could dream of.

However, it was not the jewels in the crowns of Barcelona or Madrid that caught the headlines the week Marco departed for Kraków. Perhaps overshadowed by the tumultuous season of Real Betis, as well as the fame of the illustrious clubs of his compatriots, Dani Ceballos also managed a stunning run with the smaller club of Seville, a shining beacon of hope in times of hardship and unrest.

Marco knew better than most what Dani was capable of, and that it took a special blend of unwavering confidence, fearless determination, and raw, unstoppable talent to _drag_ —single-handedly at times, using fingernails and teeth—a faltering team from the spiral of self-destruction. Dani showed the world that he was a player ready to fight, ready to break into the limelight and stamp his authority, to shed blood and sweat for the crest on his chest. Dani Ceballos demanded recognition, and recognition he received.

“The _darling_ of Real Betis,” Borja read from an article on FourFourTwo, as the Real Madrid boys made their way towards the check-in of the Madrid–Barajas Airport, “A new pearl. And look at the photo they chose!”

Printed on the glossy pages of the magazine was Dani of Real Betis, lunging into not particularly the cleanest of tackles, studs high. Marco winced at the depicted contact.

“Maybe it’s meant to be ironic.”

“Or maybe they’ve never been personally tackled by him,” Marcos Llorente joined the conversation, sounding aggrieved, “When Betis came to Álava, all I wanted to do was crush his small head. I didn’t though.”

“He seemed fine to me,” Marco said, “But I didn’t come on until late in the game when Real played Betis.”

Dani’s nose had bled from a wayward elbow during the physically intense match, but that had not stopped the young playmaker from unleashing defense splitting passes as Real Madrid narrowly escaped the Estadio Benito Villamarín with a 2-1 win.

“He’s linked to Atleti, you know?” Borja said, “Even Barcelona.”

Marco knew— _of course, he knew_. Dani was a phenomenal player, and it had taken a touch too long for him to get the attention he deserved outside of the small niche of fans and pundits who spotted him in Betis like a diamond among the silt. Dani deserved everything—the praise, the hype, the expectations of magic and brilliance, the links to Barça, Atleti, Arsenal, Chelsea, the ludicrous contracts that will undoubtedly be offered once his campaign with the Spain U21s ended.

Marco felt happiness for Dani, he truly did, but a smidgen of guilt sullied his conscience knowing that he should be feeling a bit more.

~~

Dani now kept his hair naturally dark to accompany his neatly trimmed beard. It was the simplest look he had maintained in years, but Marco liked it the best. Dani looked calmer, more mature, more in control of the emotions that so often stormed behind sharp, brown eyes, but the core of his personality—his brooding determination and a peculiar, feral charm—remained in the focus of his gaze and the angle of his smile.

Marco still shaved but kept a stubble on days he felt lazy. He still had the same haircut since he was a teenager, the practical kind that didn’t require much—or any—maintenance. Marco still didn’t have any tattoos, even though Dani liked to trace signs and symbols on his calves during morning stretches. And Marco still roomed with Dani despite having Real Madrid teammates at Kraków, because Dani had been his best friend ever since the beginning of their journey in the red of Spain, so why break tradition now?

~~

Spain dominated in their opener against Macedonia. Marco found the net in each half before Dani was subbed on for Gerard Deulofeu, and the man of the moment for Real Betis looked to influence the game immediately, freshening the midfield with fluid movement and efficient passing. After Spain initiated a counter from a defended corner, Marco traversed the length of the pitch to score his first hattrick for his country. Dani was the first to reach Marco as they reeled off in celebration, allowing Marco to rest his weight against their embrace when fatigue finally caught up after his tireless run.

Dani’s impressive cameo against Macedonia, followed by a stunning performance against Portugal, cemented his position in the starting line-up. Both he and Marco were rested for the third game against Serbia, after Spain had secured a spot in the semi-finals with a group match left to spare.

The evening following the Serbia match, Dani spent the night on the phone with his agent, pacing about as he tried several times—albeit, unsuccessfully—to postpone the conversation to a later time. Marco made an effort not to eavesdrop, but it was difficult given that they shared a hotel room.

“I don’t want to think about it now.” Dani’s voice was muffled but decipherable behind the closed door of their restroom. “You know what’s important to me. Give me two more weeks, and I’ll decide.”

A few minutes after, Dani returned, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand and appearing absolutely drained. Marco offered a sympathetic smile as Dani flopped rather gracelessly onto Marco’s bed instead of his own, his hair wet from a recent shower and dark curls falling over his forehead and damping Marco’s pillow. He sighed as Marco reached over to ruffle the hair at the back of his head.

“Who is it this time?” Marco asked.

“Chelsea, again,” Dani mumbled, “I don’t want to move to England. I want to stay in Spain.”

“You’re spoiled for choice. You really don’t have to worry about that.”

Dani propped himself on an elbow, probing eyes meeting Marco’s. There could only be so many things on Dani’s mind at the moment—some things rightfully complicated, some things Dani chose (wittingly or unwittingly) to over complicate himself. Marco had never found Dani difficult to read, even when Dani spent days contemplating on his thoughts without saying a word. And Marco could almost anticipate the question now, when Dani finally asked, “What do you think? Where should I go?”

What role was Marco supposed to play in the transfer chaos of his best friend? Empirically, Marco would answer no role—other than the sympathetic friend who is willing to lend a ear, willing to offer reassurances during one of the most tumultuous periods of an athlete's career. This decision was Dani’s and Dani’s alone, and Marco wasn’t so arrogant to believe that he knew what was best for Dani better than Dani himself.

“I’m a little biased,” he finally said, returning a wry smile.

“I know, but I still want to hear it.”

Marco hesitated. Practically, the choices before them were Barcelona, Atlético, or Real Madrid—this detail unspoken but unquestionably true. Given Dani’s immense talent and their immutable friendship, Marco would love nothing more than to have Dani beside him in the white of Madrid. But they did not live in this vacuum, and Marco understood too well—much to the detriment of his own desires—the difficulty of finding a place in Real Madrid’s star studded line-up, especially in the midfield where Dani excelled. Dani was too good to be stashed away as a precaution, or be any club’s fourth choice midfielder, not even for the greatest club in the world. He belonged on the pitch with the ball at his brilliant feet, and it would be a crime, a _tragedy_ to keep him from reaching his boundless potential.

Maybe in a few years, Real Madrid would actually _need_ new midfield talent, but Dani was not the kind who allowed any opportunity to slip from his grasp. He was ready to step onto the biggest stage now, and losing Dani to Barcelona or Atlético would mean losing Dani forever.

“I don’t know,” Marco responded with reticence, “This is your choice, and I only want the best for you. I don’t know what that might be, but—you’re my best friend, and I will support you no matter what.”

It was not the answer Dani was looking for, and he seemed disappointed as he rose to his feet. There was no anger in his body language however, only silent deliberation as he returned to his own side of the room. They did not speak again for the rest of the night, but Dani did pull Marco’s sheets out from underneath him the next morning, when Marco was a snooze away from missing breakfast.


	5. Spain U21, 2017, Kraków part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you so much for the wonderful comments and messages! This fic has been a joy to write, and the process made me so soft for Dani and this friendship that it's not even funny! 
> 
> Well, I hoped you enjoyed the journey thus far, and here's to more happy marco/dani moments now that they're both in Madrid <3

_Spain U21, 2017, Kraków part ii_

For a long time, and not so deep into the callowness of youth, Dani used to watch the academy players of Madrid and Barcelona with a rankling mix of indignation and envy that festered in his belly like fire and acid. He found it irksome how coaches gave them more chances to impress and referees afforded them the benefit of the doubt, as well as the prying media who glorified these boys as the bearers of hope, the successors to a golden generation fading in the sands of time.

And unhelpful for Dani’s preconception was that these lauded boys often alluded to an image of perfection—Geri with his catalogue good looks, Denis’ groomed modesty, and even Saul’s effortless coolness as a rising star in a rising club. But deep down, Dani acknowledged with stubborn petulance that none of these were _actually_ character flaws, because these boys were just as hard-working, just as ambitious and talented. It was Dani’s own prejudice that drove him to erroneous conclusions, fueled him to reach for impossibly high standards, and ironically, allowed him to garner the attention of the big clubs that he had equally idolized and despised growing up.

Now, a few years older and a touch wiser, Dani accepted the degree of luck that may shape a player’s career, propelling their breakthrough at a young age so that they may compete with the best teams and fight for silverware (and in Marco’s case, winning silverware). There was a touch of luck, sure, but none of this should take away from their individual talents and praiseworthy achievements.

And as the U21 Euros approached its end, Dani knew that his time was near as well. Spain progressed to the finals after a convincing victory over Italy. Saul’s hattrick would certainly grab the headlines, but Dani’s efforts did not go unnoticed, as he dictated play behind his attackers, provided penetrating passes with unerring accuracy, and drew the decisive foul which forced Italy to finish the match with 10 men.

Dani spent the immediate post-match before microphones and flashing cameras, answering rapid-fire questions with barely a moment to breathe in between. Perhaps hyper-aware of Dani’s history of disastrous media stints, his agent, coaches, and even senior teammates all prepared him well, warning him of the perils of careless words that can spiral into wildfire.

Dani flirted with the idea of joining Barcelona, humored the questions around Real Madrid. He never praised Messi’s left foot without mentioning Ronaldo’s right, never lauded the creativity of Modrić without juxtaposing with Iniesta’s vision. All other questions received scripted, generic responses—always remain focused on the next match at hand, always urge calmness when addressing the uncertainties of the future.

Marco was the exception, however.

“With Marco? We are friends and roommates, and we have a very good relationship on and off the field. He is an impeccable player and one of my closest friends.”

Similar to Dani, Marco was not born into a dynasty. Marco came from humble origins and conquered immense adversities, all the while knocking on the doors of the footballing world with doubtless conviction. But above all else, Marco was genuinely kind—to everyone, but especially to Dani—during a period of his tumultuous youth where Dani probably deserved kindness the least.

“We always talk about having spent so many years where we share entire days together, when we play for the national team. When that happens, you build a special relationship.”

Marco would never receive a generic answer, no matter which city Dani would eventually call home, which crest he would carry over his chest. Dani would probably stir trouble for talking more than he should, but when the questions involved Marco, he refused to answer any other way

“Our friendship, it’s very important to me, and it’s important to continue down this line.”

~~

The Spanish U21 team were granted a rare day of rest as they awaited their final showdown against a resilient German side. Borja invited Dani to go into the city with the rest of the Real Madrid boys, and Dani agreed— _coolly_ , might he add—because rarely did anyone include him in social events with such uncurbed enthusiasm. And privately, he welcomed their company, even if Borja felt the need to document every moment on his instagram, Jesús was too wide-eyed and gullible to fully appreciate Dani’s dry sarcasm, and Marcos Llorente still threatened Dani, even when he smiled.

Marco came along too because— _hell_ , these were _his_ friends—but he remained a quiet spectator for most of the day, watching with a humored smile when he thought Dani wasn’t looking.

“I think I have more photos with Mayoral now, than I have with my family,” Dani said to Marco as they waited at the crosswalk for the rest of the group to catch up. A marionette store across the street had seized Borja’s attention.

“He wants to be your friend,” Marco smiled.

“He’s trying to recruit me,” Dani objected, “Don’t tell me it’s not obvious.” The media was probably having a ball, given how many photos now existed with Dani surrounded by Real Madrid youngsters during his downtime.

Marco shrugged. “He wouldn’t want to recruit you if he didn’t want to be your friend.”

Dusk drew near as the sky above Kraków dimmed to a somber violet-blue, but the city below glimmered with life, banishing the stillness of the night with halaos of vibrant gold. Marco stood by the edge of the curb as passing cars casted his face in undulating waves of lights and shadows. He kept his hands in his pocket and his head slightly bowed, avoiding Dani’s scrutiny with perhaps, pangs of conscience.

Dani watched Marco suspiciously, wondering if Marco had something to do with this trip into the city. But judging by how ostentatiously excited Borja was, and how many times Borja had slung an arm over Dani’ shoulder and pressed their heads together for a self-taken photo, Dani had little doubt that this day had been Borja’s brainchild all along.

Dani would never question Marco’s intent, nor his own abilities as a footballer. He had played some of his best football with Marco by his side, and Marco surely was aware of that too. He wished Marco would just say those words, say _be my teammate_ or _come to Madrid_ , because if he did, Dani would do it—honest to God, he would.

Maybe that was why Marco was so hesitant. Maybe this reality dawned on him too.

~~

Dani dropped to his knees, exhaustion and crushing disappointment finally sinking in as the stadium filled with jubilation and cheers from the fans of their triumphant rivals. Spain lost to Germany after a frustrating evening where lady luck never smiled, and none of the magic and brilliance so endemic to this young Spanish side managed to break down an unwavering German resolve.

In the aftermath of the heartbreaking loss, Dani barely recognized his own name as the best player of the tournament was announced.

Dani took his photos beside an equally solemn Marco, who received the silver boot for his three goals and two assists. They shared a look briefly as Marco offered a small, rueful smile, and Dani couldn’t help but taste bitterness in his mouth as he stared down at the garish plaque weighing heavily in his hands, stamping him as the newest golden boy.

Oh, how he would trade a hundred of these to be champions of Europe, with his teammates, his friends, and Marco.

~~

“Don’t go to Barcelona,” Marco said, his voice cutting through the silence of the night and wrenching Dani from the haziness of sleep. “Don’t sign for Atletico—just _don’t_.”

“I—What?” Dani mumbled into the folds of his pillow, blinking away the heaviness over his eyes.

“Come to Madrid,” Marco insisted, before adding, “Only if you want to, that is.”

Dani considered carefully as he turned in his bed, still not quite awake for the weight of this conversation. “I was waiting— _hoping_ —you’d ask me to.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You’re my best friend. What you think matters to me.”

Dani heard movement on Marco’s side, followed by the shuffling of tentative footsteps along their carpeted floor. He pushed himself up to sit and felt the mattress dipping as Marco picked his spot by the edge. “Of course I want you to come.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything before?” Dani asked, “Don’t think I can handle being in Madrid?”

“No, you know that’s not it,” Marco responded firmly. “I guess—I didn’t want to influence your decision because I know how important this is. I wanted you to make the right choice without implementing myself—and what _I_ want—to all the pressure you’re already feeling. I didn’t want to make things more complicated for you.”

“So what changed?”

Marco took a moment to consider, before sighing, “I don’t know. I feel like I’m being a little selfish right now. I know we will still be friends even if we sign for rival clubs, but—it would be nice if we weren’t rivals.”

Dani laughed, nudging Marco and hoping to tease a smile out of his friend because this conversation shouldn’t be so serious, shouldn’t make Marco feel sad. Marco wasn’t being selfish, and it was preposterous that he would even think that. He had always cared for Dani—unconditionally at times—and Dani should be the one feeling a little bit selfish, but also, infinitely blessed. Marco was his best friend, and perhaps the best _person_ Dani has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

“That’s it?” Dani said in jest, “Just so you won’t get tackled by me during a clásico?”

“No.” Marco shook his head, and he did smile this time. “It’s because I love playing alongside you. Even more than I would hate playing against you.”

~~

They boarded their flight back to Spain late the next evening. Marco fell asleep an hour or so in, the movie he chose to pass the time—the second of The Lord of the Rings trilogy—illuminated his passive features in incandescent blues and greens. Dani did not sleep and spent the time sifting through his emails instead, his inbox a cluttered mess after he had willfully ignored it for the better half of their tournament.

 _Atlético, Barça, or Real Madrid?_ That was the recurring question. And the influences of these big clubs appeared to tug and tease, push and pull, neither approaching equilibrium nor achieving full dominance.

Dani turned to look at Marco, whose head now lolled against Dani’s shoulder, snoring softly with his headphones askew and his movie long forgotten. Dani smiled as he responded to those messages finally.

There never really was a choice to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading this far! Comments are always loved, and feel free to message me on my tumblr jamesalarcon to fan over more marco/dani moments! 
> 
> Also, a Chinese translation is available thanks a wonderful reader, ingridlu. 
> 
> Here is the link to their blog: http://nmfengyan.lofter.com/tag/cebensio
> 
> Cheers! xx


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